Eirik Johnson's Sawdust Mountain Photo Project

Came across this lovely piece of work on NPR's website this morning. It struck a cord - as being both beautiful and sad - so I thought I pass along the link. Here's Eirik Johnson's website with the entire collections of photos.

You can't have grown up in Seattle in the 80's and 90's and not have had some relationship with logging. It was a huge (though already dwindling) part of the Northwest economy, especially out on the Olympic Peninsula. If you spent much time in the woods, or mountains in general, you were aware that timber harvests were going on, because clear-cutting leaves such a visible impression on the landscape. Anyone who's driven I-90 east out of Seattle (and that covers almost everyone who lives there) through the Cascades is familiar with the patchwork-quilt style forest left behind by a hundred years of intensive timber harvest.

Things changed drastically with the listing of the Northern Spotted Owl as a threatened species on the Endangered Species Act in 1990. I remember having the conversation with my dad in the car one day - he didn't understand why a little bird could be more important than thousands of jobs. I on the other hand, just entering the work force as a 15 year old, couldn't grasp why these loggers couldn't simply find some other means to support themselves.

As I grew older and spent more time on the Olympic Peninsula I learned how much more complex the issue was than our conversation. I saw that the those little Spotted Owls were more a symbol of the health of the forest in general than a single species. They were the canary in the coal mine, one of the indicator species that the old-growth forests ecosystem was disappearing at an alarming rate. In fact, by 1990 the old-growth forests in our country had been almost entirely chopped down.

On the way to backpacking trips in Olympic National Park, my friends and I would pass through the small towns supported by the timber industry. It was painfully obvious how impoverished these communities were. Places like Forks, Hoquiam, Queets, and Aberdeen. People on the peninsula were just getting by, even in the best of times. There's a reason why Kurt Cobain's music was so depressing. There's no Microsoft, no Boeing, no gravy train out there on the rainy, overcast western edge of the state. Logging was all they had.

Since 1990 the world has moved on. Domestic logging has all but disappeared. Most lumber comes from oversees. Seattle has exploded and become one of the most desirable cities to live in the country. Many, many more jobs have been created in Washington than were ever lost in the logging industry. But it isn't the loggers who got those jobs. If you visit those small Olympic Peninsula towns, you'll see a familiar story that you'll find all across the American West. The rural communities are disappearing. Young people are moving to the cities, and they aren't coming back.

I think Eirik Johnson's photos do a wonderful job of telling that story. It's worth taking 15 minutes to look through them and think about the transition our country is going through. If you live in Seattle, check out his show at the Henry Art Gallery, it'll be there October 24th, January 31st. Time marches on, and I'm happy we're not cutting down our biggest and best forests, but that doesn't mean it's not a painful experience for lots of folks.

Moon Utah Camping Reviewed in the Salt Lake Tribune

The guidebook I wrote, Moon Utah Camping got a quick write-up in Travel Section of the Salt Lake Tribune on Sunday, June 28th. You'll find it on page H-4 in the Away/Travel and Outdoors Section. If you're interested in learning more about the book here's the link to our site and the Moon Outdoors website promoting the book. You can also order it here off the Matson Adventure Media blog.

Moving Fast

Its been raining a lot in Salt Lake City lately. Which is weird. Because it never really rains here. Up in the Wasatch its been even soggier than down in the valley, which hasn't been great for outdoor recreation, or outdoor photography for that matter. So last weekend, when there was a small break in the clouds, I employed an old strategy I used to use a lot in the Cascades, when I was trying to squeeze in a few good frames during occasional breaks in the clouds.

The strategy, in a nutshell, is moving fast. Sounds simple really, but I don't think it gets talked about much in the world of outdoor photography. The late, great Galen Rowell used to preach it in his Outdoor Photographer column and in his books, but I think its worth revisiting.

If you're into landscape photography at all, you know that light - the quality of light - is everything. Which means you want to be shooting at the magic hour. Plain and simple. Problem is, the magic hour only happens at the edge of the day, twice a day, at dawn and dusk. Its difficult to be on location, deep in the backcountry, at the magic hour on regular basis. In fact, unless you're out camping or backpacking, chances are, you're hardly ever at the best locations when the light is really going off. Which makes it hard to take great landscape photographs. And the reality is that most people don't have enough free time to go backpacking every time they want to make a nice picture.

Which brings us back to moving fast. The other day when the clouds parted at about 6:30 in the evening, I grabbed my camera, two lenses, a small tri-pod, and my headlamp and headed for the hills. My goal was somewhere close, but wild, so I drove up Big Cottonwood Canyon to the S-curve parking lot for Lake Blanche. By 7:15 I was on the trail and moving fast. I knew I had about two hours 'till the light would be really good.

I'll be the first to admit I'm not a big fan of trail running. Running is one of my least favorite ways to get exercise. But sometimes it can be a very effective way to travel. I figured I had about 90 minutes to go a little less than 4 miles, which even for me, isn't hard to do. With a small, light pack I easily half walked, half jogged to the lake by the time the sun was setting.

I spent an hour at the lake, working the shoreline for reflection images and watching the thunderheads move through. When I was satisfied that the best light was gone, I re-packed my bag and headed for the car. On the hike down I was surprised to see another headlamp working its way up the trail. As we passed each other, I noticed the other hiker's Lowe-Pro camera bag strapped to his chest...someone else out there moving fast.

Main Salmon River - Photo Gear for the River (Trip Video)

Last week I was lucky enough to get the chance to go down the Main Salmon River in central Idaho with Jared Hopkinson's Sawtooth Adventure Company. We rafted 82 miles through the wilderness on BIG water and only saw two other parties in five days. It was truly special to have the river all to ourselves - to see the place at its best! Here's a quick video documenting the trip! Thanks to everyone who made this trip happen - I really appreciate being able to tag along. If you'd like to look at the still photos I've posted them on my flickr photostream.



Since this is a blog about photography I thought it would be fun to talk about the equipment I used to shoot video and photograph the trip. This trip was unique to shoot for a couple of reasons. First of all, we were going down a river. A big river. The flow levels for the trip oscillated between 60,000 and 80,000 cubic feet per second (cfs) while were on the water. For anyone unfamiliar with river running, that's HUGE water. For a little perspective compare it to the Colorado River where it flows through Cataract Canyon - considered to be one of the ultimate big water rafting trip in North America - "The Colorado River reached its peak flow for 2009 in Utah's Cataract Canyon on May 26. The river was flowing at a raging 52,000 cfs. Cataract Canyon is known for it's exciting rapids and "when the river reaches flows over 50,000 cfs the rapids are awe inspiring" says veteran rafting guide Walker Mackay."

Catch that? The Colorado was at 52,000 - we were at 60,000 - 80,000. We were going down the Main Salmon the same week, but at even higher flows. So, I needed a strategy to keep my camera gear dry. My solution was a multi-camera approach. I ended up taking three cameras in total. I took my trusty Nikon D200. The D200 is my main body that I shoot almost everything with. It's a great camera and I know it very well. If it was waterproof and shot video it would be all I needed. Unfortunately, it is not. And its expensive, so dunking it in the drink wasn't an option. If a boat flipped, or I swam with it in my hand I would be out a huge chunk of change. But I wanted to capture the action of whitewater, so I needed a camera I could take risks with. I pulled out my old film camera, the N90. The N90 is an awesome, lightweight, relatively inexpensive camera that I hardly ever use anymore because digital has become the medium of choice. I also threw in my "fun" camera, an Olympus SP550UZ. This camera is not great as a still camera, but it takes decent video, and it was free (so I wasn't real worried about it getting wet).

To keep everything dry when I wasn't using it I used a Pelican 1450 dry box. The 1450 is great size for cameras, fits both my bodies, a couple lenses with a little room left over for goodies like memory cards, cords, etc. It's still small enough to move around easily and can be strapped to the top of an oar frame on a raft, or even onto a center tube on a paddle boat if you want. I also brought along a variety of dry bags for little stuff that wouldn't fit in my Pelican case.

To keep my film camera and video camera dry while I shot out of the boats I used a little splash guard made by KATA (E-690). I was very impressed with this little gadget. You can slip your hand in the right side to access your camera controls and things still stay very dry. We splashed through some pretty big waves and my cameras came out dry.

While I handheld my camera a lot of the time I brought along a small light tri-pod, the Velbon CX470. Its nothing special, but its light, very ridged and I've been banging it around for about 5 years (there's something comforting about using gear that jI have used a lot in the backcountry). I also took a the Manfrotto Magic Arm and Super Clamp. If you're into action sports photography or just finding new angles and unique perspective for your photographs check these things out. I read about them on the Strobist blog by David Hobby and you can buy them from Midwest Photo Exchange. Check 'em out, they're awesome!

So, that's about it. Sounds like a lot to lug around on a backcountry trip. But rafting is a pretty luxurious way to travel through the wilderness. And aside from the Pelican case, I could have carried it all in a small backpack. No problem.

Announcing: Moon Utah Camping

I'm excited to announce the publication of my first book titled Moon Utah Camping! The guidebook is published by Avalon Travel's Moon Handbooks and is part of their Moon Outdoor Series. Moon Utah Camping is a complete guide to camping in Utah and covers all the developed campgrounds in the state - including public campgrounds, private campgrounds and RV parks. Its also packed full of useful information about Utah's abundant recreational opportunities and national parks. If you're interested in camping anywhere in Utah, this book is the perfect place to start. The book sells for $17.95 and you can buy a signed copy of the the book here, directly from the author. Unsigned copies are available at book stores in Salt Lake and around the state of Utah. You'll also find it at outdoor stores like REI or through online bookstores like Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Borders.com, Books-a-million.com, IndieBound.org, and Powells.com.

Here's a short video/slideshow trailer for the book.



Best,

Mike

Thailand

Searching for a completely different experience than the Utah winter, Sonja and I headed to Thailand for a 3 week climbing trip during the month of April. Below are some photos with extended captions from our trip.


This shot depicts the "Thailand climbing dream." White sand tropical beach, wildly overhanging and textured rock, nobody else in sight...of course the reality there is a lot more complicated. But this wall, called Low Tide Wall, was both secluded and deserted. The catch: it can only be reached and climbed on at low tide, because at high tide, it doesn't exist.





You can't get very far in Southern Thailand without taking one of these longtail boats. They've got a suped-up lawn mower engine on the back with a propeller extending into the water - which doubles as a power source and rudder. They're loud as hell and an environmental nightmare, but they're the way everyone and everything gets around.


This beach is Railey East, the "budget" beach on the Phra Nang Peninsula. The Phra Nang Peninsula is climbing central in Thailand. Its cut off from the Krabi mainland by a series of limestone cliffs (the same ones that are so cool to climb on) and has an island like feel. Everything must come and go by boat, which is a good and bad thing. The limited access reduces the number of tourists, but it also means there's lots of garbage and junk sitting around (or stashed in the jungle) because nobody wants to pay to have it hauled away. There are three beaches on the peninsula, Railey East, Railey West, and Tonsai Beach. These beaches are literally surrounded by climbing crags, so no matter where you stay, you're close to some excellent pocket pulling!


Here's a look back the other way at the laid back bars and restaurants lining the beach.


This is the Muai Thai Wall, which means Thai Boxing. When we first arrived, we were still on US time, so we'd get up at 5 AM and climb for about 4 hours before the crowds of climbers would show up with the Thai guiding companies at nine. By then we figured we'd earned breakfast.


Like many tropical countries, Thailand has two main seasons, a dry season, and a wet season. The dry season runs from December through May, with the monsoon unloading the rest of the year. While the rain only interfered with our climbing a couple days, it did seem like the rainy season had started a little early. This shot is of passing thunderstorm as it rolled towards the western horizon.


This is Sonja on lead feeling her way up Massage Secret at the 1,2,3 Wall.


After a week on the Phra Nang Peninsula, we packed up and headed to the Phi Phi Islands - tourist mania, and the birthplace of climbing in Thailand.

After a solid ten days of climbing we were ready for a rest day, so we went on a sunset snorkel tour out to Phi Phi Le. Phi Phi Le is preserved as a national park so there's no development on the island. It is home to one of the most beautiful beaches in the world, and is, in fact where the Hollywood flop, "The Beach" staring Leonardo DiCaprio was filmed. The infamous tsunami in 2004 has since reshaped the beach a bit, throwing up lots of broken coral into the shallow tide pools, but otherwise it remains its stunning self. Phi Phi Le has the best snorkeling I've ever seen with incredible shallow reefs teeming with fish. The water is the perfect temperature and the visibility is excellent - the only bummer is the other people. Lots of 'em. And we were there in the low season.

Here's a look at the early morning calm
along the shoreline of Phi Phi Le from
the deck of a diveboat.
















Thailand is famous for its all-night full moon beach parties. One of the key elements to any good full moon party (aside from copious consumption of booze and other substances) is the late night fireshow. The performers twirl kerosene fueled fireballs on the end of arm length chains leaving a trail of light in the darkness. This photo wasn't made on a full moon, but rather on an average night at a beach bar. When this performer spotted my hefty tri-pod and fancy camera, he excitedly asked me take his photo while he created a flower with his fire trails over the span of a four second exposure.



Just another world class sunset on a gorgeous beach...

Does this remind anyone of the Yellowstone in the 60's? While monkeys might not be as powerful and threatening as grizzly bears, its probably even dumber to feed them. Their bites carry rabies, which means at best a series of painful shots - in a third world hospital. We asked our snorkel guide if it was common for people to be bit, his answer: every day.


Northern Thailand is distinctly more Buddhist than southern Thailand, so after a couple weeks of climbing down south, we headed up to Chiang Mai to get a little more of a cultural experience. This is a beautiful old teak wood Buddhist Temple in the "Old City" of Chiang Mai. There's tons of history in Chiang Mai. This is where the original Thai people first settled after migrating south from China.

Chiang Mai is also a wonderful place to shop. The locals take street markets to the next level. There's a night market every night and on the weekends there's also a Saturday Market, Sunday Market and a Weekend Market in addition to all the small local food markets. The hill tribes who live north of the city make an impressive assortment of handicrafts.
We took a cooking class in Chiang Mai so we could try to replicate all the good meals we'd enjoyed while in country. After you cooked each dish, you ate it, so by the end of the day we felt like we were going to explode. Here's Sonja working on her green curry.

My favorite part of the cooking class was going to the local food market where our instructor showed us the local vegetables and ingredients to the classic Thai dishes. There was some crazy looking local food that I didn't try, and lots of lovely looking produce.



Think we have a lot options at American grocery stores? Check out all these different varietals of white rice!






Here we are receiving some instruction about Thai ginger...

Kalymnos Greece - A climbing Paradise

On the eve of our trip to Thailand, I uncovered a story I wrote about another warm-weather, limestone climbing destination, a tiny almost forgotten Greek island in the Aegean Sea, Kalymnos. This trip, a side trip while visiting Sonja's Peace-Corp home in Bulgaria, is really the genesis of our upcoming Thailand adventure...

Kalymnos Greece, Sponge Diving Island turned European climbing Mecca!


My hips feel like they’re going to collapse into themselves. Totally stuck, I can’t move up or down, and every second I spend here the excruciating pain gets worse. My legs are spread in the splits while my hands cling desperately to the smooth bulbous rib of rock to my left. I’m acutely aware that if I don’t move soon this rock will pitch me off into the beckoning void below. Now I understand the guidebook’s description, “The better you can bridge, the easier the climb.” Apparently I don’t bridge very well. I look down past my harness and the rope towards my girlfriend, Sonja. She looks concerned. I decide falling isn’t an option, and go for it. To my surprise my hands stick to the slick limestone as I pull out of my awkward impasse. I inch my feet up to better, more bearable footholds and in three moves I’ve finished the route. Breathing hard out of exertion and relief, I clip the rope through the chains at the top of the route and Sonja lowers me safely to the ground. This is the essence of rock climbing in Greece, on the island of Kalymnos. Intense, unique, and like nothing you’ve ever experienced.

Stashed away in the Dodecanese islands just off the west coast of Turkey, Kalymnos is an island the world almost forgot. Once known for its natural sponges harvested by naked free divers from the Aegean Sea, Kalymnos appeared to be a casualty of a changing modern world. In 1986, with cheaper synthetics dominating the sponge market and a mysterious disease decimating the diver’s harvests, the island had fallen on hard times. This all changed in the mid 1990’s when Kalymnos was discovered by the European climbing community. The island’s landscape is defined by dramatically featured orange and gray limestone cliffs. Its walls have drawn close comparisons to the Verdon Gorge in France, Europe’s climbing equivalent of Yosemite Valley. Climbers were drawn here by the untouched quality and quantity of rock. Under the leadership of Greek climbing guide Aris Theodoropoulos over 800 routes have been established in 43 different sectors of the island. And the locals have enthusiastically embraced the growing eco-tourism.

Sonja and I have come to Kalymnos to sample this rocky island paradise for ourselves. Stepping off a stormy overnight ferry

from Athens our first impression in the capital of Pothia is one of early morning calm. European yachts sway gently alongside an array of colorful fishing skiffs and beautifully crafted wood SCUBA diving boats. The skies have cleared and the water is like glass, reflecting the whitewashed stucco houses that spread up the hills surrounding the marina. The peaceful moment is soon replaced by bustling chaos. Awkward with our huge packs, we catch the city bus packed with European tourists and grocery toting YaYas (Greek Grandmas). The bus winds slowly up a narrow one lane road, the only path out of the city. The route snakes past old churches, ancient ruins, and cemeteries, to the tiny coastal village of Masouri.

Hiking up to the cliffs above Masouri smells like we’ve stepped into a Mediterranean kitchen. Thyme, sage and oregano grow wild in the arid climate. Passing a stately olive tree, Sonja unlatches a gate fashioned out of an old battered shipping pallet and frayed y

ellow twine. We’re hit by the pungent fragrance of goats. These semi-wild goats can be spotted moving freely through the hills, sometimes under the watchful eye of a shepherd and sometimes not. When we reach the rock I know we’ve come to the right place. Anxious to sample the goods, Sonja and I rope up and sink our hands into the deliciously sharp limestone pockets. Our first climbing day ends with the sun setting over the small island of Telendos. As the light melts from pink to deep purple we admire windsurfers playing th

e breeze blowing down the narrow straight between Kalymnos and T

elendos. By headlamp we descend to Masouri for gyros and Greek Salads at a roadside grill calle

d Mr. Souvlaki.

After several days of climbing near Masouri we’ve rented a scooter to explore the rest of the island. Buzzing north through the cool morning air I feel content. Just riding a scooter through this landscape is an adventure. The winding road hugs th

e coast, passing a tantalizing white sand beach tucked between rock outcrops. Across fro

m the beach sits the Chapel of Kasteli with whitewashed steps that appear to descend rig

ht into the Aegean. The chapel marks ruins of a Byzantine castle that was inhabited until the 10^th century. A 15 minute scooter ride brings us to the Arhi climbing area. Arhi, meaning “beginning” in Greek, was the first sector developed on Kalymnos. The names of the climbs here reference Greek mythology and set the standard for all the

routes on the island.

Our plan for the day is to warm up climbing on easy terrain before attempting our hardest climbs of the trip. It turn out Kalymnos is great place to challenge yourself on the rock. The climbs here are consistently well protected and safe. This also makes it an ideal place to try climbing for the first time. We’ve met climbers of all abilities from all over the world. From easy slabs to learn on, to extreme overhanging test pieces, beginners and world class climbers can be found roping up side by side. Sonja and I find ourselves somewhere in the middle of this spectrum. Today I struggle mightily through a classic called Thetis, an awkward hip crunching route unlike anything I’ve ever tried in the States. The tuffa rock is formed by the slow buildup of deposited minerals accumulating from periodically dripping water. The route hints at the more dramatic climbing found on the huge stalactites hanging on the overhanging routes in the caves here. Though frustrating, it motivates me to come back and try harder routes in the future. Sonja on the other hand, cruises effortlessly up two of her personal bests, Apolus and Adonis, proving she’s completely adapted to the subtleties of the Greek limestone and mythology.

With raw fingers and taxed forearms, we ride into the hamlet of Eborios for dinner. Settling into an open air waterfront restaurant serving up fresh calamadri, fried zucchini in garlic yogurt sauce, and grille lamb, we reflect on our adventure here. Someone dives off a lone sailboat moored out front, their figure silhouetted by the setting sun. A woman’s laughter drifts across the water. My tender fingertips are happily wrapped around a cold Mythos beer and in my head I’m already planning a return trip. This place, I think, is almost perfect!